We go through a small kitchen with a dog eating food off the floor, and a fat skinhead sitting on a pile of newspapers who throws more food at it. He looks up but doesn’t say anything. There is a fucking horrible noise coming from the stage room. We go out and there are about fifty skins bouncing around in a black low-ceilinged room. The condensation is already dripping on them. The speakers are on the little stage, and there’s barely enough room for three people to stand on. It’s a little violent, but nothing like I thought it’d be. Somehow they look like they’re having a good time. The music is so loud you can barely hear anything other than your own ear drums splitting. Focussing on it, I start to realize that it’s some Wagner overture remixed to what sounds like someone bashing an immigrant’s head against a printing press in time. “Real screams have been mixed in,” Eisen reckons, cryptically.